STORIES BY ENGLISH AUTHORS: LONDON

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I tried a last desperate stroke. "Will you come round to the front?" Isaid to the Frenchman. "I'll let you in, and we can discuss the matterquietly." Then, as we walked back together, I asked him eagerly whathe would take to abandon his claims and let the colonel think thepoodle was his after all.

He was furious--he considered himself insulted; with great emotion heinformed me that the dog was the pride of his life (it seems to be themission of black poodles to serve as domestic comforts of thispriceless kind!), that he would not part with him for twice his weightin gold.

"Figure," he began, as we joined the others, "zat zis gentilman 'ere'as offer me money for ze dog! He agrees zat it is to me, you see?Ver' well, zen, zere is no more to be said!"

"Why, Weatherhead, have /you/ lost faith too, then?" said the colonel.

I saw it was no good; all I wanted now was to get out of it creditablyand get rid of the Frenchman. "I'm sorry to say," I replied, "that I'mafraid I've been deceived by the extraordinary likeness. I don'tthink, on reflection, that that /is/ Bingo!"

"What do you think, Travers?" asked the colonel.

"Well, since you ask me," said Travers, with quite unnecessarydryness, "I never did think so."

"Nor I," said the colonel; "I thought from the first that was never myBingo. Why, Bingo would make two of that beast!"

And Lilian and her aunt both protested that they had had their doubtsfrom the first.

"Zen you pairmeet zat I remove 'im?" said the Frenchman.

"Certainly," said the colonel; and, after some apologies on our partfor the mistake, he went off in triumph, with the detestable poodlefrisking after him.

When he had gone the colonel laid his hand kindly on my shoulder."Don't look so cut up about it, my boy," he said; "you did your best--there was a sort of likeness to any one who didn't know Bingo as wedid."

Just then the Frenchman again appeared at the hedge. "A thousandpardons," he said, "but I find zis upon my dog; it is not to me.Suffer me to restore it viz many compliments."

It was Bingo's collar. Travers took it from his hand and brought it tous.

"This was on the dog when you stopped that fellow, didn't you say?" heasked me.

One more lie--and I was so weary of falsehood! "Y-yes," I said,reluctantly; "that was so."

"Very extraordinary," said Travers; "that's the wrong poodle beyond adoubt, but when he's found he's wearing the right dog's collar! Nowhow do you account for that?"

"My good fellow," I said, impatiently, "I'm not in the witness-box. I/can't/ account for it. It-it's a mere coincidence!"

"But look here, my /dear/ Weatherhead," argued Travers (whether ingood faith or not I never could quite make out), "don't you see what atremendously important link it is? Here's a dog who (as I understandthe facts) had a silver collar, with his name engraved on it, roundhis neck at the time he was lost. Here's that identical collar turningup soon afterward round the neck of a totally different dog! We mustfollow this up; we must get at the bottom of it somehow! With a cluelike this, we're sure to find out either the dog himself, or what'sbecome of him! Just try to recollect exactly what happened, there's agood fellow. This is just the sort of thing I like!"

It was the sort of thing I did not enjoy at all. "You must excuse meto-night, Travers," I said, uncomfortably; "you see, just now it'srather a sore subject for me, and I'm not feeling very well!" I wasgrateful just then for a reassuring glance of pity and confidence fromLilian's sweet eyes, which revived my drooping spirits for the moment.

It was indeed; he came prancing back delicately, with a maliciousenjoyment on his wrinkled face. "Once more I return to apologise," hesaid. "My poodle 'as permit 'imself ze grave indiscretion to make avery big 'ole at ze bottom of ze garden!"

I assured him that it was of no consequence. "Perhaps," he replied,looking steadily at me through his keen, half-shut eyes, "you vill notsay zat ven you regard ze 'ole. And you others, I spik to you:sometimes von loses a somzing vich is qvite near all ze time. It isver' droll, eh? my vord, ha, ha, ha!" And he ambled off, with anaggressively fiendish laugh that chilled my blood.

"What the deuce did he mean by that, eh?" said the colonel, blankly.

"Don't know," said Travers; "suppose we go and inspect the hole?"

But before that I had contrived to draw near it myself, in deadly fearlest the Frenchman's last words had contained some innuendo which Ihad not understood.

It was light enough still for me to see something, at the unexpectedhorror of which I very nearly fainted.

That thrice accursed poodle which I had been insane enough to attemptto foist upon the colonel must, it seems, have buried his supper thenight before very near the spot in which I had laid Bingo, and in hisattempts to exhume his bone had brought the remains of my victim tothe surface!

There the corpse lay, on the very top of the excavations. Time hadnot, of course, improved its appearance, which was ghastly in theextreme, but still plainly recognisable by the eye of affection.

"It's a very ordinary hole," I gasped, putting myself before it andtrying to turn them back. "Nothing in it--nothing at all!"

Lilian, who was by his side, gave a slight scream. "Uncle," she cried,"it looks like--like /Bingo/!"

The colonel turned suddenly upon me. "Do you hear?" he demanded, in achoked voice. "You hear what she says? Can't you speak out? Is thatour Bingo?"

I gave it up at last; I only longed to be allowed to crawl away undersomething! "Yes," I said in a dull whisper, as I sat down heavily on agarden seat, "yes . . . that's Bingo . . . misfortune . . . shoot him. . . quite an accident!"

There was a terrible explosion after that; they saw at last how I haddeceived them, and put the very worst construction upon everything.Even now I writhe impotently at times, and my cheeks smart and tinglewith humiliation, as I recall that scene--the colonel's very plainspeaking, Lilian's passionate reproaches and contempt, and her aunt'sspeechless prostration of disappointment.

I made no attempt to defend myself; I was not, perhaps, the completevillain they deemed me, but I felt dully that no doubt it all servedme perfectly right.

Still I do not think I am under any obligation to put their remarksdown in black and white here.

Travers had vanished at the first opportunity--whether out ofdelicacy, or the fear of breaking out into unseasonable mirth, Icannot say; and shortly afterward the others came to where I satsilent with bowed head, and bade me a stern and final farewell.

And then, as the last gleam of Lilian's white dress vanished down thegarden path, I laid my head down on the table among the coffee-cups,and cried like a beaten child.

I got leave as soon as I could, and went abroad. The morning after myreturn I noticed, while shaving, that there was a small square marbletablet placed against the wall of the colonel's garden. I got myopera-glass and read--and pleasant reading it was--the followinginscription:

IN AFFECTIONATE MEMORY

OF

B I N G O,

SECRETLY AND CRUELLY PUT TO DEATH,

IN COLD BLOOD,

BY A

NEIGHBOUR AND FRIEND.

JUNE, 1881.

If this explanation of mine ever reaches my neighbours' eyes, I humblyhope they will have the humanity either to take away or tone down thattablet. They cannot conceive what I suffer when curious visitorsinsist, as they do every day, on spelling out the words from ourwindows, and asking me countless questions about them!

Sometimes I meet the Curries about the village, and as they pass mewith averted heads I feel myself growing crimson. Travers is almostalways with Lilian now. He has given her a dog,--a fox-terrier,--andthey take ostentatiously elaborate precautions to keep it out of mygarden.

I should like to assure them here that they need not be under anyalarm. I have shot one dog.

THAT BRUTE SIMMONS

BY

ARTHUR MORRISON

Simmons's infamous behaviour toward his wife is still matter forprofound wonderment among the neighbours. The other women had allalong regarded him as a model husband, and certainly Mrs. Simmons wasa most conscientious wife. She toiled and slaved for that man, as anywoman in the whole street would have maintained, far more than anyhusband had a right to expect. And now this was what she got for it.Perhaps he had suddenly gone mad.

Before she married Simmons, Mrs. Simmons had been the widowed Mrs.Ford. Ford had got a berth as donkeyman on a tramp steamer, and thatsteamer had gone down with all hands off the Cape: a judgment, thewidow woman feared, for long years of contumacy, which had culminatedin the wickedness of taking to the sea, and taking to it as adonkeyman--an immeasurable fall for a capable engine-fitter. Twelveyears as Mrs. Ford had left her still childless, and childless sheremained as Mrs. Simmons.

As for Simmons, he, it was held, was fortunate in that capable wife.He was a moderately good carpenter and joiner, but no man of theworld, and he wanted one. Nobody could tell what might not havehappened to Tommy Simmons if there had been no Mrs. Simmons to takecare of him. He was a meek and quiet man, with a boyish face andsparse, limp whiskers. He had no vices (even his pipe departed himafter his marriage), and Mrs. Simmons had ingrafted on him diversexotic virtues. He went solemnly to chapel every Sunday, under a tallhat, and put a penny--one returned to him for the purpose out of hisweek's wages--in the plate. Then, Mrs. Simmons overseeing, he took offhis best clothes, and brushed them with solicitude and pains. OnSaturday afternoons he cleaned the knives, the forks, the boots, thekettles, and the windows, patiently and conscientiously; on Tuesdayevenings he took the clothes to the mangling; and on Saturday nightshe attended Mrs. Simmons in her marketing, to carry the parcels.

Mrs. Simmons's own virtues were native and numerous. She was awonderful manager. Every penny of Tommy's thirty-six or thirty-eightshillings a week was bestowed to the greatest advantage, and Tommynever ventured to guess how much of it she saved. Her cleanliness inhousewifery was distracting to behold. She met Simmons at the frontdoor whenever he came home, and then and there he changed his bootsfor slippers, balancing himself painfully on alternate feet on thecold flags. This was because she scrubbed the passage and door-stepturn about with the wife of the downstairs family, and because thestair-carpet was her own. She vigilantly supervised her husband allthrough the process of "cleaning himself" after work, so as to comebetween her walls and the possibility of random splashes; and if, inspite of her diligence, a spot remained to tell the tale, she was atpains to impress the fact on Simmons's memory, and to set forth atlength all the circumstances of his ungrateful selfishness. In thebeginning she had always escorted him to the ready-made clothes shop,and had selected and paid for his clothes, for the reason that men aresuch perfect fools, and shopkeepers do as they like with them. But shepresently improved on that. She found a man selling cheap remnants ata street-corner, and straightway she conceived the idea of makingSimmons's clothes herself. Decision was one of her virtues, and a suitof uproarious check tweeds was begun that afternoon from the patternfurnished by an old one. More: it was finished by Sunday, whenSimmons, overcome by astonishment at the feat, was endued in it, andpushed off to chapel ere he could recover his senses. The things werenot altogether comfortable, he found: the trousers hung tight againsthis shins, but hung loose behind his heels; and when he sat, it was ona wilderness of hard folds and seams. Also, his waistcoat collartickled his nape, but his coat collar went straining across fromshoulder to shoulder; while the main garment bagged generously belowhis waist. Use made a habit of his discomfort, but it never reconciledhim to the chaff of his shopmates; for, as Mrs. Simmons elaboratedsuccessive suits, each one modelled on the last, the primal accidentsof her design developed into principles, and grew even bolder and morehideously pronounced. It was vain for Simmons to hint--as hint he did--that he shouldn't like her to overwork herself, tailoring being badfor the eyes, and there was a new tailor's in the Mile End Road, verycheap, where . . . "Ho yus," she retorted, "you're very consid'rit Idessay sittin' there actin' a livin' lie before your own wife ThomasSimmons as though I couldn't see through you like a book a lot youcare about overworkin' me as long as /your/ turn's served throwin'away money like dirt in the street on a lot o' swindlin' tailors an'me workin' and' slavin' 'ere to save a 'a'penny an' this is my returnfor it any one 'ud think you could pick up money in the 'orse-road an'I b'lieve I'd be thought better of if I laid in bed all day like somewould that I do." So that Thomas Simmons avoided the subject, nor evenmurmured when she resolved to cut his hair.

So his placid fortune endured for years. Then there came a goldensummer evening when Mrs. Simmons betook herself with a basket to dosome small shopping, and Simmons was left at home. He washed and putaway the tea-things, and then he fell to meditating on a new pair oftrousers, finished that day, and hanging behind the parlour door.There they hung, in all their decent innocence of shape in the seat,and they were shorter of leg, longer of waist, and wilder of patternthan he had ever worn before. And as he looked on them the small devilof Original Sin awoke and clamoured in his breast. He was ashamed ofit, of course, for well he knew the gratitude he owed his wife forthose same trousers, among other blessings. Still, there the smalldevil was, and the small devil was fertile in base suggestions, andcould not be kept from hinting at the new crop of workshop gibes thatwould spring at Tommy's first public appearance in such things.

"Pitch 'em in the dust-bin!" said the small devil at last. "It's allthey're fit for."

Simmons turned away in sheer horror of his wicked self, and for amoment thought of washing the tea-things over again by way ofdiscipline. Then he made for the back room, but saw from the landingthat the front door was standing open, probably the fault of the childdownstairs. Now a front door standing open was a thing that Mrs.Simmons would /not/ abide: it looked low. So Simmons went down, thatshe might not be wroth with him for the thing when she came back; and,as he shut the door, he looked forth into the street.

A man was loitering on the pavement, and prying curiously about thedoor. His face was tanned, his hands were deep in the pockets of hisunbraced blue trousers, and well back on his head he wore thehigh-crowned peaked cap, topped with a knob of wool, which is affectedby Jack ashore about the docks. He lurched a step nearer to the door,and "Mrs. Ford ain't in, is she?" he said.

Simmons stared at him for a matter of five seconds, and then said,"Eh?"

"Mrs. Ford as was, then--Simmons now, ain't it?"

He said this with a furtive leer that Simmons neither liked norunderstood.

"No," said Simmons; "she ain't in now."

"You ain't her 'usband, are ye?"

"Yus."

The man took his pipe from his mouth and grinned silently and long."Blimy," he said at length, "you look like the sort o' bloke she'dlike," and with that he grinned again. Then, seeing that Simmons madeready to shut the door, he put a foot on the sill and a hand againstthe panel. "Don't be in a 'hurry, matey," he said; "I come 'ere t''ave a little talk with you, man to man, d' ye see?" And he frownedfiercely.

Tommy Simmons felt uncomfortable, but the door would not shut, so heparleyed. "Wotjer want?" he asked, "I dunno you."

"Then, if you'll excuse the liberty, I'll interdooce meself, in amanner of speaking." He touched his cap with a bob of mock humility."I'm Bob Ford," he said, "come back out o' kingdom come so to say. Meas went down with the /Mooltan/--safe dead five year gone. I come tosee my wife."

During this speech Thomas Simmons's jaw was dropping lower and lower.At the end of it he poked his fingers up through his hair, looked downat the mat, then up at the fanlight, then out into the street, thenhard at his visitor. But he found nothing to say.

"Come to see my wife," the man repeated. "So now we can talk it over--as man to man."

Simmons slowly shut his mouth, and led the way upstairs mechanically,his fingers still in his hair. A sense of the state of affairs sankgradually into his brain, and the small devil woke again. Suppose thisman /was/ Ford? Suppose he /did/ claim his wife? Would it be a knock-down blow? Would it hit him out?--or not? He thought of the trousers,the tea-things, the mangling, the knives, the kettles, and thewindows; and he thought of them in the way of a backslider.

On the landing Ford clutched at his arm, and asked in a hoarsewhisper, " 'Ow long 'fore she's back?"

" 'Bout an hour, I expect," Simmons replied, having first of allrepeated the question in his own mind. And then he opened the parlourdoor.

Simmons began to feel that this was no longer his business. Plainly,'Anner was this other man's wife, and he was bound in honour toacknowledge the fact. The small devil put it to him as a matter ofduty.

"Well," said Ford, suddenly, "time's short an' this ain't business. Iwon't be 'ard on you, matey. I ought prop'ly to stand on my rights,but seein' as you're a well-meaning young man, so to speak, an' allsettled an' a-livin' 'ere quiet an' matrimonual, I'll"--this with aburst of generosity--"damme! yus, I'll compound the felony an' take me'ook. Come, I'll name a figure, as man to man, fust an' last, no lessan' no more. Five pound does it."

Simmons hadn't five pounds,--he hadn't even fivepence,--and he saidso. "An' I wouldn't think to come between a man an' 'is wife," headded, "not on no account. It may be rough on me, but it's a dooty./I'll/ 'ook it."

"No," said Ford, hastily, clutching Simmons by the arm, "don't dothat. I'll make it a bit cheaper. Say three quid--come, that'sreasonable, ain't it? Three quid ain't much compensation for me goin'away for ever--where the stormy winds do blow, so to say--an' never asmuch as seein' me own wife agin for better nor wuss. Between man an'man, now, three quid, an' I'll shunt. That's fair, ain't it?"

" 'Old on," quoth Ford, and got between Simmons and the door; "don'tdo things rash. Look wot a loss it'll be to you with no 'ome to go to,an' nobody to look after ye, an' all that. It'll be dreadful. Say acouple--there, we won't quarrel, jest a single quid, between man an'man, an' I'll stand a pot out o' the money. You can easy raise a quid--the clock 'ud pretty nigh do it. A quid does it, an' I'll--"

There was a loud double knock at the front door. In the East End adouble knock is always for the upstairs lodgers.

"Oo's that?" asked Bob Ford, apprehensively.

"I'll see," said Thomas Simmons, in reply, and he made a rush for thestaircase.

Bob Ford heard him open the front door. The he went to the window, andjust below him he saw the crown of a bonnet. It vanished, and borne tohim from within the door there fell upon his ear the sound of a well-remembered female voice.

"Where ye goin' now with no 'at?" asked the voice, sharply.

"Awright, 'Anner--there's--there's somebody upstairs to see you,"Simmons answered. And, as Bob Ford could see, a man went scuttlingdown the street in the gathering dusk. And behold, it was ThomasSimmons.

Ford reached the landing in three strides. His wife was still at thefront door, staring after Simmons. He flung into the back room, threwopen the window, dropped from the wash-house roof into the back yard,scrambled desperately over the fence, and disappeared into the gloom.He was seen by no living soul. And that is why Simmons's basedesertion--under his wife's very eyes, too--is still an astonishmentto the neighbours.

A ROSE OF THE GHETTO

BY

ISRAEL ZANGWILL

One day it occurred to Leibel that he ought to get married. He went toSugarman the Shadchan forthwith.

"I have the very thing for you," said the great marriage broker.

"Is she pretty?" asked Leibel.

"Her father has a boot and shoe warehouse," replied Sugarman,enthusiastically.

"Then there ought to be a dowry with her," said Leibel, eagerly.

"Certainly a dowry! A fine man like you!"

"How much do you think it would be?"

"Of course it is not a large warehouse; but then you could get yourboots at trade price, and your wife's, perhaps, for the cost of theleather."

"When could I see her?"

"I will arrange for you to call next Sabbath afternoon."

"You won't charge me more than a sovereign?"

"Not a groschen more! Such a pious maiden! I'm sure you will be happy.She has so much way-of-the-country [breeding]. And of course five percent on the dowry?"

"H'm! Well, I don't mind!" "Perhaps they won't give a dowry," hethought with a consolatory sense of outwitting the Shadchan.

On the Saturday Leibel went to see the damsel, and on the Sunday hewent to see Sugarman the Shadchan.

"But your maiden squints!" he cried, resentfully.

"An excellent thing!" said Sugarman. "A wife who squints can neverlook her husband straight in the face and overwhelm him. Who wouldquail before a woman with a squint?"

"I could endure the squint," went on Leibel, dubiously, "but she alsostammers."

"Well, what is better, in the event of a quarrel? The difficulty shehas in talking will keep her far more silent than most wives. You hadbest secure her while you have the chance."

"But she halts on the left leg," cried Leibel, exasperated.

"/Gott in Himmel!/ Do you mean to say you do not see what an advantageit is to have a wife unable to accompany you in all your goings?"

Nevertheless Leibel persisted in his unreasonable attitude. He accusedSugarman of wasting his time, of making a fool of him.

"A fool of you!" echoed the Shadchan, indignantly, "when I give you achance of a boot and shoe manufacturer's daughter? You will make afool of yourself if you refuse. I dare say her dowry would be enoughto set you up as a master tailor. At present you are compelled toslave away as a cutter for thirty shillings a week. It is most unjust.If you only had a few machines you would be able to employ your owncutters. And they can be got so cheap nowadays."

This gave Leibel pause, and he departed without having definitelybroken the negotiations. His whole week was befogged by doubt, hiswork became uncertain, his chalk marks lacked their usual decision,and he did not always cut his coat according to his cloth. Hisaberrations became so marked that pretty Rose Green, the sweater'seldest daughter, who managed a machine in the same room, divined, withall a woman's intuition, that he was in love.

"What is the matter?" she said, in rallying Yiddish, when they weretaking their lunch of bread and cheese and ginger-beer amid theclatter of machines, whose serfs had not yet knocked off work.

"They are proposing me a match," he answered, sullenly.

"A match!" ejaculated Rose. "Thou!" She had worked by his side foryears, and familiarity bred the second person singular. Leibel noddedhis head, and put a mouthful of Dutch cheese into it.

"With whom?" asked Rose. Somehow he felt ashamed. He gurgled theanswer into the stone ginger-beer bottle, which he put to his thirstylips.

Leibel hung his head--he scarce knew why. He did not dare meet hergaze. His droop said "Yes." There was a long pause.

"And why dost thou not have her?" said Rose. It was more than aninquiry; there was contempt in it, and perhaps even pique.

Leibel did not reply. The embarrassing silence reigned again, andreigned long. Rose broke it at last.

"Is it that thou likest me better?" she asked.

Leibel seemed to see a ball of lightning in the air; it burst, and hefelt the electric current strike right through his heart. The shockthrew his head up with a jerk, so that his eyes gazed into a facewhose beauty and tenderness were revealed to him for the first time.The face of his old acquaintance had vanished; this was a cajoling,coquettish, smiling face, suggesting undreamed-of things.

"/Nu/, yes," he replied, without perceptible pause.

"/Nu/, good!" she rejoined as quickly.

And in the ecstasy of that moment of mutual understanding Leibelforgot to wonder why he had never thought of Rose before. Afterward heremembered that she had always been his social superior.

The situation seemed too dream-like for explanation to the room justyet. Leibel lovingly passed a bottle of ginger-beer, and Rose took asip, with a beautiful air of plighting troth, understood only of thosetwo. When Leibel quaffed the remnant it intoxicated him. The relics ofthe bread and cheese were the ambrosia to this nectar. They did notdare kiss; the suddenness of it all left them bashful, and the smackof lips would have been like a cannon-peal announcing theirengagement. There was a subtler sweetness in this sense of a secret,apart from the fact that neither cared to break the news to the mastertailor, a stern little old man. Leibel's chalk marks continuedindecisive that afternoon, which shows how correctly Rose hadconnected them with love.

Before he left that night Rose said to him, "Art thou sure thouwouldst not rather have Leah Volcovitch?"

"Not for all the boots and shoes in the world," replied Leibel,vehemently.

"And I," protested Rose, "would rather go without my own than withoutthee."

The landing outside the workshop was so badly lighted that their lipscame together in the darkness.

"Yes. But Sugarman has seen her father several times," persisted Rose."For so misshapen a maiden his commission would be large. Thou must goto Sugarman to-night, and tell him that thou canst not find it in thyheart to go on with the match."

"Kiss me, and I will go," pleaded Leibel.

"Go, and I will kiss thee," said Rose, resolutely.

"And when shall we tell thy father?" he asked, pressing her hand, asthe next best thing to her lips.

"As soon as thou art free from Leah."

"But will he consent?"

"He will not be glad," said Rose, frankly. "But after mother's death--peace be upon her--the rule passed from her hands into mine."

"Ah, that is well," said Leibel. He was a superficial thinker.

Leibel found Sugarman at supper. The great Shadchan offered him achair, but nothing else. Hospitality was associated in his mind withspecial occasions only, and involved lemonade and "stuffed monkeys."

He was very put out--almost to the point of indigestion--to hear ofLeibel's final determination, and plied him with reproachfulinquiries.

"You don't mean to say that you give up a boot and shoe manufacturermerely because his daughter has round shoulders!" he exclaimed,incredulously.

"It is more than round shoulders--it is a hump!" cried Leibel.

"And suppose? See how much better off you will be when you get yourown machines! We do not refuse to let camels carry our burdens becausethey have humps."

"Ah, but a wife is not a camel," said Leibel, with a sage air.

"And a cutter is not a master tailor," retorted Sugarman.

"Enough, enough!" cried Leibel. "I tell you, I would not have her ifshe were a machine warehouse."

"There sticks something behind," persisted Sugarman, unconvinced.

Leibel shook his head. "Only her hump" he said with a flash of humour.

"Moses Mendelssohn had a hump," expostulated Sugarman, reproachfully.

"Yes, but he was a heretic," rejoined Leibel, who was not withoutreading. "And then he was a man! A man with two humps could find awife for each. But a woman with a hump cannot expect a husband inaddition."

"Guard your tongue from evil," quoth the Shadchan, angrily. "Ifeverybody were to talk like you Leah Volcovitch would never be marriedat all."

Leibel shrugged his shoulders, and reminded him that hunchbacked girlswho stammered and squinted and halted on left legs were not usuallyled under the canopy.

"Nonsense! Stuff!" cried Sugarman, angrily. "That is because they donot come to me."

"Leah Volcovitch /has/ come to you," said Leibel, "but she shall notcome to me." And he rose, anxious to escape.

Instantly Sugarman gave a sigh of resignation. "Be it so! Then I shallhave to look out for another, that's all."

"One needs Hillel's patience to deal with you!" cried Sugarman. "But Ishall charge you, all the same, for my trouble. You cannot cancel anorder like this in the middle! No, no! You can play fast and loosewith Leah Volcovitch, but you shall not make a fool of me."

"But if I don't want one?" said Leibel, sullenly.

Sugarman gazed at him with a cunning look of suspicion. "Didn't I saythere was something sticking behind?"

Leibel felt guilty. "But whom have you got in your eye?" he inquired,desperately.

"Perhaps you may have some one in yours!" naively answered Sugarman.

Leibel gave a hypocritic long-drawn "U-m-m-m! I wonder if Rose Green--where I work--" he said, and stopped.

"I fear not," said Sugarman. "She is on my list. Her father gave herto me some months ago, but he is hard to please. Even the maidenherself is not easy, being pretty."

"Perhaps she has waited for some one," suggested Leibel.

Sugarman's keen ear caught the note of complacent triumph.

"You have been asking her yourself!" he exclaimed, in horror-strickenaccents.

"And if I have?" said Leibel, defiantly.

"You have cheated me! And so has Eliphaz Green--I always knew he wastricky! You have both defrauded me!"

"I did not mean to," said Leibel, mildly.

"You /did/ mean to. You had no business to take the matter out of myhands. What right had you to propose to Rose Green?"

"I did not," cried Leibel, excitedly.

"Then you asked her father!"

"No; I have not asked her father yet."

"Then how do you know she will have you?"

"I--I know," stammered Leibel, feeling himself somehow a liar as wellas a thief. His brain was in a whirl; he could not remember how thething had come about. Certainly he had not proposed; nor could he saythat she had.

"Yourself!" echoed Sugarman, in horror. "Are you unsound in the head?Why, that would be worse than the mistake you have already made!"

"What mistake?" asked Leibel, firing up.

"The mistake of asking the maiden herself. When you quarrel with herafter your marriage she will always throw it in your teeth that youwished to marry her. Moreover, if you tell a maiden you love her, herfather will think you ought to marry her as she stands. Still, what isdone is done." And he sighed regretfully.

"And what more do I want? I love her."

"You piece of clay!" cried Sugarman, contemptuously. "Love will notturn machines, much less buy them. You must have a dowry. Her fatherhas a big stocking; he can well afford it."

Leibel's eyes lit up. There was really no reason why he should nothave bread and cheese with his kisses.

"Now, if /you/ went to her father," pursued the Shadchan, "the oddsare that he would not even give you his daughter--to say nothing ofthe dowry. After all, it is a cheek of you to aspire so high. As youtold me from the first, you haven't saved a penny. Even my commissionyou won't be able to pay till you get the dowry. But if /I/ go I donot despair of getting a substantial sum--to say nothing of thedaughter."

"Yes, I think you had better go," said Leibel, eagerly.

"But if I do this thing for you I shall want a pound more," rejoinedSugarman.

"A pound more!" echoed Leibel, in dismay. "Why?"

"Because Rose Green's hump is of gold," replied Sugarman, oracularly."Also, she is fair to see, and many men desire her."

"But you have always your five per cent, on the dowry."

"It will be less than Volcovitch's," explained Sugarman. "You see,Green has other and less beautiful daughters."

"Yes, but then it settles itself more easily. Say five shillings."

"Eliphaz Green is a hard man," said the Shadchan instead.

"Ten shillings is the most I will give!"

"Twelve and sixpence is the least I will take. Eliphaz Green hagglesso terribly."

They split the difference, and so eleven and threepence representedthe predominance of Eliphaz Green's stinginess over Volcovitch's.

The very next day Sugarman invaded the Green workroom. Rose bent overher seams, her heart fluttering. Leibel had duly apprised her of theroundabout manner in which she would have to be won, and she hadacquiesced in the comedy. At the least it would save her the troubleof father-taming.

Sugarman's entry was brusque and breathless. He was overwhelmed withjoyous emotion. His blue bandana trailed agitatedly from his coat-tail.

"At last!" he cried, addressing the little white-haired master tailor;"I have the very man for you."

"Yes?" grunted Eliphaz, unimpressed. The monosyllable was packed withemotion. It said, "Have you really the face to come to me again withan ideal man?"

"He has all the qualities that you desire," began the Shadchan, in atone that repudiated the implications of the monosyllable. "He isyoung, strong, God-fearing--"

"Ah!" The father's voice relaxed, and his foot lay limp on thetreadle. He worked one of his machines himself, and paid himself thewages so as to enjoy the profit. "How much will he have?"

"I think he will have fifty pounds; and the least you can do is to lethim have fifty pounds," replied Sugarman, with the same happyambiguity.

Eliphaz shook his head on principle.

"Yes, you will," said Sugarman, "when you learn how fine a man he is."

The flush of confusion and trepidation already on Leibel's countenancebecame a rosy glow of modesty, for he could not help overhearing whatwas being said, owing to the lull of the master tailor's machine.

"Tell me, then," rejoined Eliphaz.

"Tell me, first, if you will give fifty to a young, healthy, hard-working, God-fearing man, whose idea it is to start as a master tailoron his own account? And you know how profitable that is!"

"To a man like that," said Eliphaz, in a burst of enthusiasm, "I wouldgive as much as twenty-seven pounds ten!"

Sugarman groaned inwardly, but Leibel's heart leaped with joy. To getfour months' wages at a stroke! With twenty-seven pounds ten he couldcertainly procure several machines, especially on the instalmentsystem. Out of the corners of his eyes he shot a glance at Rose, whowas beyond earshot.

"Unless you can promise thirty it is waste of time mentioning hisname," said Sugarman.

"Well, well--who is he?"

Sugarman bent down, lowering his voice into the father's ear.

"What! Leibel!" cried Eliphaz, outraged.

"Sh!" said Sugarman, "or he will overhear your delight, and ask more.He has his nose high enough, as it is."

"B--b--b--ut," sputtered the bewildered parent, "I know Leibel myself.I see him every day. I don't want a Shadchan to find me a man I know--a mere hand in my own workshop!"

"Your talk has neither face nor figure," answered Sugarman, sternly."It is just the people one sees every day that one knows least. Iwarrant that if I had not put it into your head you would never havedreamt of Leibel as a son-in-law. Come now, confess."

Eliphaz grunted vaguely, and the Shadchan went on triumphantly: "Ithought as much. And yet where could you find a better man to keepyour daughter?"

"He ought to be content with her alone," grumbled her father.

Sugarman saw the signs of weakening, and dashed in, full strength:"It's a question whether he will have her at all. I have not been tohim about her yet. I awaited your approval of the idea." Leibeladmired the verbal accuracy of these statements, which he had justcaught.

"But I didn't know he would be having money," murmured Eliphaz.

"Of course you didn't know. That's what the Shadchan is for--to pointout the things that are under your nose."

"But where will he be getting this money from?"

"From you," said Sugarman, frankly.

"From me?"

"From whom else? Are you not his employer? It has been put by for hismarriage day."

"He has saved it?"

"He has not /spent/ it," said Sugarman, impatiently.

"But do you mean to say he has saved fifty pounds?"

"If he could manage to save fifty pounds out of your wages he would beindeed a treasure," said Sugarman. "Perhaps it might be thirty."

"But you said fifty."

"Well, /you/ came down to thirty," retorted the Shadchan. "You cannotexpect him to have more than your daughter brings."

"Very well; that will do as a basis of negotiations," said Sugarman,resignedly. "I will call upon him this evening. If I were to go overand speak to him now, he would perceive you were anxious, and raisehis terms, and that will never do. Of course you will not mindallowing me a pound more for finding you so economical a son-in-law?"

"Not a penny more."

"You need not fear," said Sugarman, resentfully. "It is not likely Ishall be able to persuade him to take so economical a father-in-law.So you will be none the worse for promising."

"Be it so," said Eliphaz, with a gesture of weariness, and he startedhis machine again.

"Ah, but Leibel is different. So many years he has sat at my side andsaid nothing."

"He had his work to think of. He is a good, saving youth."

"At this very moment Sugarman is trying to persuade him--not so? Isuppose he will want much money."

"Be easy, my child." And he passed his discoloured hand over her hair.

Sugarman turned up the next day, and reported that Leibel wasunobtainable under thirty pounds, and Eliphaz, weary of the contest,called over Leibel, till that moment carefully absorbed in hisscientific chalk marks, and mentioned the thing to him for the firsttime. "I am not a man to bargain," Eliphaz said, and so he gave theyoung man his tawny hand, and a bottle of rum sprang from somewhere,and work was suspended for five minutes, and the "hands" all drankamid surprised excitement. Sugarman's visits had prepared them tocongratulate Rose; but Leibel was a shock.

The formal engagement was marked by even greater junketing, and atlast the marriage day came. Leibel was resplendent in a diagonalfrockcoat, cut by his own hand; and Rose stepped from the cab a medleyof flowers, fairness, and white silk, and behind her came twobridesmaids,--her sisters,--a trio that glorified the spectator-strewnpavement outside the synagogue. Eliphaz looked almost tall in hisshiny high hat and frilled shirt-front. Sugarman arrived on foot,carrying red-socked little Ebenezer tucked under his arm.

Leibel and Rose were not the only couple to be disposed of, for it wasthe thirty-third day of the Omer--a day fruitful in marriages.

But at last their turn came. They did not, however, come in theirturn, and their special friends among the audience wondered why theyhad lost their precedence. After several later marriages had takenplace a whisper began to circulate. The rumour of a hitch gainedground steadily, and the sensation was proportionate. And, indeed, therose was not to be picked without a touch of the thorn.

Gradually the facts leaked out, and a buzz of talk and comment ranthrough the waiting synagogue. Eliphaz had not paid up!

At first he declared he would put down the money immediately after theceremony. But the wary Sugarman, schooled by experience, demanded itsinstant delivery on behalf of his other client. Hard pressed, Eliphazproduced ten sovereigns from his trousers-pocket, and tendered them onaccount. These Sugarman disdainfully refused, and the negotiationswere suspended. The bridegroom's party was encamped in one room, thebride's in another, and after a painful delay Eliphaz sent an emissaryto say that half the amount should be forthcoming, the extra fivepounds in a bright new Bank of England note. Leibel, instructed andencouraged by Sugarman, stood firm.

And then arose a hubbub of voices, a chaos of suggestions; friendsrushed to and fro between the camps, some emerging from their seats inthe synagogue to add to the confusion. But Eliphaz had taken his standupon a rock--he had no more ready money. To-morrow, the next day, hewould have some. And Leibel, pale and dogged, clutched tighter atthose machines that were slipping away momently from him. He had notyet seen his bride that morning, and so her face was shadowy comparedwith the tangibility of those machines. Most of the other maidens weremarried women by now, and the situation was growing desperate. Fromthe female camp came terrible rumours of bridesmaids in hysterics, anda bride that tore her wreath in a passion of shame and humiliation.Eliphaz sent word that he would give an I O U for the balance, butthat he really could not muster any more current coin. Sugarmaninstructed the ambassador to suggest that Eliphaz should raise themoney among his friends.

And the short spring day slipped away. In vain the minister, apprisedof the block, lengthened out the formulae for the other pairs, andblessed them with more reposeful unction. It was impossible to staveoff the Leibel-Green item indefinitely, and at last Rose remained theonly orange-wreathed spinster in the synagogue. And then there was ahush of solemn suspense, that swelled gradually into a steady rumbleof babbling tongues, as minute succeeded minute and the final bridalparty still failed to appear. The latest bulletin pictured the bridein a dead faint. The afternoon was waning fast. The minister left hispost near the canopy, under which so many lives had been united, andcame to add his white tie to the forces for compromise. But he faredno better than the others. Incensed at the obstinacy of theantagonists, he declared he would close the synagogue. He gave thecouple ten minutes to marry in or quit. Then chaos came, andpandemonium--a frantic babel of suggestion and exhortation from thecrowd. When five minutes had passed a legate from Eliphaz announcedthat his side had scraped together twenty pounds, and that this wastheir final bid.

Leibel wavered; the long day's combat had told upon him; the reportsof the bride's distress had weakened him. Even Sugarman had lost hiscocksureness of victory. A few minutes more and both commissions mightslip through his fingers. Once the parties left the synagogue, itwould not be easy to drive them there another day. But he cheered onhis man still: one could always surrender at the tenth minute.

At the eighth the buzz of tongues faltered suddenly, to be transposedinto a new key, so to speak. Through the gesticulating assembly sweptthat murmur of expectation which crowds know when the procession iscoming at last. By some mysterious magnetism all were aware that theBRIDE herself--the poor hysteric bride--had left the paternal camp,was coming in person to plead with her mercenary lover.

And as the glory of her and the flowers and the white draperies loomedupon Leibel's vision his heart melted in worship, and he knew hiscitadel would crumble in ruins at her first glance, at her firsttouch. Was it fair fighting? As his troubled vision cleared, and asshe came nigh unto him, he saw to his amazement that she was specklessand composed--no trace of tears dimmed the fairness of her face, therewas no disarray in her bridal wreath.

The clock showed the ninth minute.

She put her hand appeallingly on his arm, while a heavenly light cameinto her face--the expression of a Joan of Arc animating her country.

"Do not give in, Leibel!" she said. "Do not have me! Do not let thempersuade thee! By my life, thou must not! Go home!"

So at the eleventh minute the vanquished Eliphaz produced the balance,and they all lived happily ever afterward.

AN IDYL OF LONDON

BY

BEATRICE HARRADEN

It was one o'clock, and many of the students in the National Galleryhad left off work and were refreshing themselves with lunch andconversation. There was one old worker who had not stirred from hisplace, but he had put down his brush, and had taken from his pocket asmall book, which was like its owner--thin and shabby of covering. Heseemed to find pleasure in reading it, for he turned over its pageswith all the tenderness characteristic of one who loves what he reads.Now and again he glanced at his unfinished copy of the beautifulportrait of Andrea del Sarto, and once his eyes rested on another copynext to his, better and truer than his, and once he stopped to pick upa girl's prune-coloured tie, which had fallen from the neighbouringeasel. After this he seemed to become unconscious of his surroundings,as unconscious, indeed, as any one of the pictures near him. Any onemight have been justified in mistaking him for the portrait of a man,but that his lips moved; for it was his custom to read softly tohimself.

The students passed back to their places, not troubling to notice him,because they knew from experience that he never noticed them, and thatall greetings were wasted on him and all words were wanton expenditureof breath. They had come to regard him very much in the same way asmany of us regard the wonders of nature, without astonishment, withoutany questionings, and often without any interest. One girl, a new-comer, did chance to say to her companion:

"How ill that old man looks!"

"Oh, he always looks like that," was the answer. "You will soon getaccustomed to him. Come along! I must finish my 'Blind Beggar' thisafternoon."

In a few minutes most of the workers were busy again, although therewere some who continued to chat quietly, and several young men whoseemed reluctant to leave their girl friends, and who were by no meansencouraged to go! One young man came to claim his book and pipe, whichhe had left in the charge of a bright-eyed girl, who was copying SirJoshua's "Angels." She gave him his treasures, and received inexchange a dark-red rose, which she fastened in her belt; and then hereturned to his portrait of Mrs. Siddons. But there was something inhis disconsolate manner which made one suspect that he thought less ofMrs. Siddons's beauty than of the beauty of the girl who was wearingthe dark-red rose! The strangers, strolling through the rooms, stoppednow and again to peer curiously at the students' work. They werestared at indignantly by the students themselves, but they made noattempt to move away, and even ventured sometimes to pass criticismsof no tender character on some of the copies. The fierce-looking manwho was copying "The Horse Fair" deliberately put down his brushes,folded his arms, and waited defiantly until they had gone by; butothers, wiser in their generation, went on painting calmly. Severalworkers were painting the new Raphael; one of them was a white-hairedold gentlewoman, whose hand was trembling, and yet skilful still. Morethan once she turned to give a few hints to the young girl near her,who looked in some distress and doubt. Just the needful help wasgiven, and then the girl plied her brush merrily, smiling the whilewith pleasure and gratitude. There seemed to be a genial, kindlyinfluence at work, a certain homeliness too, which must needs assertitself where many are gathered together, working side by side. Allmade a harmony; the wonderful pictures, collected from many lands andmany centuries, each with its meaning and its message from the past;the ever-present memories of the painters themselves, who had workedand striven and conquered; and the living human beings, each with hiswealth of earnest endeavour and hope.

Meanwhile the old man read on uninterruptedly until two hands were putover his book and a gentle voice said:

"Mr. Lindall, you have had no lunch again. Do you know, I begin tohate Lucretius. He always makes you forget your food."

The old man looked up, and something like a smile passed over hisjoyless face when he saw Helen Stanley bending over him.

"Ah," he answered, "you must not hate Lucretius. I have had morepleasant hours with him than with any living person."

He rose and came forward to examine her copy of Andrea del Sarto'sportrait.

"Yours is better than mine," he said, critically; "in fact, mine is afailure. I think I shall only get a small price for mine; indeed, Idoubt whether I shall get sufficient to pay for my funeral."

"You speak dismally," she answered, smiling.

"I missed you yesterday," he continued, half dreamily. "I left mywork, and I wandered through the rooms, and I did not even readLucretius. Something seemed to have gone from my life. At first Ithought it must be my favourite Raphael, or the Murillo; but it wasneither the one nor the other; it was you. That was strange, wasn'tit? But you know we get accustomed to anything, and perhaps I shouldhave missed you less the second day, and by the end of a week I shouldnot have missed you at all. Mercifully, we have in us the power offorgetting."

"I do not wish to plead for myself," she said, "but I do not believethat you or any one could really forget. That which outsiders callforgetfulness might be called by the better name of resignation."

"I don't care about talking any more now," he said, suddenly, and hewent to his easel and worked silently at his picture; and HelenStanley glanced at him, and thought she had never seen her oldcompanion look so forlorn and desolate as he did to-day. He looked asif no gentle hand had ever been placed on him in kindliness andaffection, and that seemed to her a terrible thing; for she was one ofthose prehistorically minded persons who persist in believing thataffection is as needful to human life as rain to flower life. Whenfirst she came to work at the gallery--some twelve months ago--she hadnoticed this old man, and had wished for his companionship; she washerself lonely and sorrowful, and, although young, had to fight herown battles, and had learned something of the difficulties offighting, and this had given her an experience beyond her years. Shewas not more than twenty-four years of age, but she looked ratherolder, and, though she had beautiful eyes, full of meaning andkindness, her features were decidedly plain as well as unattractive.There were some in the gallery who said among themselves that, as Mr.Lindall had waited so many years before talking to any one, he mighthave chosen some one better worth the waiting for! But they soonbecame accustomed to seeing Helen Stanley and Mr. Lindall together,and they laughed less than before; and meanwhile the acquaintanceripened into a sort of friendship, half sulky on his part and whollykind on her part. He told her nothing about himself, and he askednothing about herself; for weeks he never even knew her name.Sometimes he did not speak at all, and the two friends would worksilently side by side until it was time to go; and then he waiteduntil she was ready, and walked with her across Trafalgar Square,where they parted and went their own ways.

But occasionally, when she least expected it, he would speak withglowing enthusiasm on art; then his eyes seemed to become bright, andhis bent figure more erect, and his whole bearing proud and dignified.There were times, too, when he would speak on other subjects: on themorality of free thought--on Bruno, of blessed memory, on him, andscores of others too. He would speak of the different schools ofphilosophy; he would laugh at himself, and at all who, having giventime and thought to the study of life's complicated problems, had notreached one step further than the Old-World thinkers. Perhaps he wouldquote one of his favourite philosophers, and then suddenly relapseinto silence, returning to his wonted abstraction and to hisindifference to his surroundings. Helen Stanley had learned tounderstand his ways and to appreciate his mind, and, without intrudingon him in any manner, had put herself gently into his life as hisquiet champion and his friend. No one in her presence dared speakslightingly of the old man, or to make fun of his tumble-downappearance, or of his worn-out silk hat with a crack in the side, orof his rag of a black tie, which, together with his overcoat, had"seen better days." Once she brought her needle and thread, and darnedthe torn sleeve during her lunch-time; and, though he never knew it,it was a satisfaction to her to have helped him.

To-day she noticed that he was painting badly, and that he seemed totake no interest in his work; but she went on busily with her ownpicture, and was so engrossed in it that she did not at first observethat he had packed up his brushes and was preparing to go home.

"Three more strokes," he said, quietly, "and you will have finishedyour picture. I shall never finish mine; perhaps you will be goodenough to set it right for me. I am not coming here again. I don'tseem to have caught the true expression; what do you think? But I amnot going to let it worry me, for I am sure you will promise to doyour best for me. See, I will hand over these colours and thesebrushes to you, and no doubt you will accept the palette as well. Ihave no further use for it."

Helen Stanley took the palette which he held out toward her, andlooked at him as though she would wish to question him.

"It is very hot here," he continued, "and I am going out. I am tiredof work."

He hesitated, and then added, "I should like you to come with me, ifyou can spare the time."

She packed up her things at once, and the two friends moved slowlyaway, he gazing absently at the pictures, and she wondering in hermind as to the meaning of his strange mood.

When they were on the steps inside the building, he turned to HelenStanley and said:

"I should like to go back to the pictures once more. I feel as if Imust stand among them just a little longer. They have been mycompanions for so long that they are almost part of myself. I canclose my eyes and recall them faithfully. But I want to take a lastlook at them; I want to feel once more the presence of the greatmasters, and to refresh my mind with their genius. When I look attheir work I think of their life, and can only wonder at their death.It was so strange that they should die."

They went back together, and he took her to his favourite pictures,but remained speechless before them, and she did not disturb histhoughts. At last he said:

"I am ready to go. I have said farewell to them all. I know nothingmore wonderful than being among a number of fine pictures. It isalmost overwhelming. Once expects nature to be grand, but one does notexpect man to be grand."

"You know we don't agree there," she answered. "/I/ expect everythinggrand and great from man."

They went out of the gallery, and into Trafalgar Square. It was ascorching afternoon in August, but there was some cooling comfort inseeing the dancing water of the fountains sparkling so brightly in thesunshine.

"Do you mind stopping here a few minutes?" he said. "I should like tosit down and watch. There is so much to see."

She led the way to a seat, one end of which was occupied by a workman,who was sleeping soundly, and snoring too, his arms folded tightlytogether. He had a little clay pipe in the corner of his mouth; itseemed to be tucked in so snugly that there was not much danger of itsfalling to the ground. At last Helen spoke to her companion.

"What do you mean by saying that you will not be able to finish yourpicture? Perhaps you are not well. Indeed, you don't look well. Youmake me anxious, for I have a great regard for you."

"I am ill and suffering," he answered, quietly. "I thought I shouldhave died yesterday; but I made up my mind to live until I saw youagain, and I thought I would ask you to spend the afternoon with me,and go with me to Westminster Abbey, and sit with me in the cloisters.I do not feel able to go by myself, and I know of no one to ask exceptyou; and I believed you would not refuse me, for you have been verykind to me. I do not quite understand why you have been kind to me,but I am wonderfully grateful to you. Today I heard some one in thegallery say that you were plain. I turned round and I said, 'I begyour pardon; /I/ think she is very beautiful.' I think they laughed,and that puzzled me; for you have always seemed to me a very beautifulperson."

At that moment the little clay pipe fell from the workman's mouth andwas broken into bits. He awoke with a start, gazed stupidly at the oldman and his companion, and at the broken clay pipe.

"Curse my luck!" he said, yawning. "I was fond of that damned littlepipe."

The old man drew his own pipe and his own tobacco-pouch from hispocket.

"You're uncommon kind," he said. "Can you spare them?" he added,holding them out half reluctantly.

"Yes," answered the old man; "I shall not smoke again. You may as wellhave these matches too."

The labourer put them in his pocket, smiled his thanks, and walkedsome little distance off; and Helen watched him examine his new pipe,and then fill it with tobacco and light it.

Mr. Lindall proposed that they should be getting on their way toWestminster, and they soon found themselves in the abbey. They sattogether in the Poets' Corner; a smile of quiet happiness broke overthe old man's tired face as he looked around and took in all thesolemn beauty and grandeur of the resting-place of the great.

"You know," he said, half to himself, half to his companion, "I haveno belief of any kind, and no hopes and no fears; but all through mylife it has been a comfort to me to sit quietly in a church or acathedral. The graceful arches, the sun shining through the stainedwindows, the vaulted roof, the noble columns, have helped me tounderstand the mystery which all our books of philosophy cannot makeclear, though we bend over them year after year, and grow old overthem, old in age and in spirit. Though I myself have never beenoutwardly a worshipper, I have never sat in a place of worship butthat, for the time being, I have felt a better man. But directly thevoice of doctrine or dogma was raised the spell was broken for me, andthat which I hoped was being made clear had no further meaning for me.There was only one voice which ever helped me, the voice of the organ,arousing me, thrilling me, filling me with strange longing, withwelcome sadness, with solemn gladness. I have always thought thatmusic can give an answer when everything else is of no avail. I do notknow what you believe."

"I am so young to have found out," she said, almost pleadingly.

"Don't worry yourself," he answered, kindly. "Be brave and strong, andlet the rest go. I should like to live long enough to see what youwill make of your life. I believe you will never be false to yourselfor to any one. That is rare. I believe you will not let any lowerideal take the place of your high ideal of what is beautiful and noblein art, in life. I believe that you will never let despair get theupper hand of you. If it does you may as well die; yes, you may aswell. And I entreat you not to lose your entire faith in humanity.There is nothing like that for withering up the very core of theheart. I tell you, humanity and nature have so much in common witheach other that if you lose part of your pleasure in the latter; youwill see less beauty in the trees, the flowers, and the fields, lessgrandeur in the mighty mountains and the sea. The seasons will comeand go, and you will scarcely heed their coming and going: winter willsettle over your soul, just as it settled over mine. And you see whatI am."

They had now passed into the cloisters, and they sat down in one ofthe recesses of the windows, and looked out upon the rich plot ofgrass which the cloisters enclose. There was not a soul there exceptthemselves; the cool and the quiet and the beauty of the spotrefreshed these pilgrims, and they rested in calm enjoyment.

Helen was the first to break the silence.

"I am glad you have brought me here," she said; "I shall never grumblenow at not being able to afford a fortnight in the country. This isbetter than anything else."

"It has always been my summer holiday to come here," he said. "When Ifirst came I was like you, young and hopeful, and I had wonderfulvisions of what I intended to do and to be. Here it was I made a vowthat I would become a great painter, and win for myself a restingplace in this very abbey. There is humour in the situation, is therenot?"

"I don't like to hear you say that," she answered. "It is not alwayspossible for us to fulfil all our ambitions. Still, it is better tohave had them, and failed of them, than not to have had them at all."

"Possibly," he replied, coldly. Then he added, "I wish you would tellme about yourself. You have always interested me."

"I have nothing to tell you about myself," she answered, frankly. "Iam alone in the world, without friends and without relations. The veryname I use is not a real name. I was a foundling. At times I am sorryI do not belong to any one, and at other times I am glad. You know Iam fond of books and of art, so my life is not altogether empty; and Ifind my pleasure in hard work. When I saw you at the gallery I wishedto know you, and I asked one of the students who you were. He told meyou were a misanthrope. Then I did not care so much about knowing you,until one day you spoke to me about my painting, and that was thebeginning of our friendship."

"Forty years ago," he said, sadly, "the friend of my boyhood deceivedme. I had not thought it possible that he could be false to me. Hescreened himself behind me, and became prosperous and respected at theexpense of my honour. I vowed I would never again make a friend. A fewyears later, when I was beginning to hold up my head, the woman whom Iloved deceived me. Then I put from me all affection and all love.Greater natures than mine are better able to bear these troubles, butmy heart contracted and withered up."

He paused for a moment, many recollections overpowering him. Then hewent on telling her the history of his life, unfolding to her thestory of his hopes and ambitions, describing to her the very homewhere he was born, and the dark-eyed sister whom he had loved, andwith whom he had played over the daisied fields, and through thecarpeted woods, and all among the richly tinted bracken. One day hewas told she was dead, and that he must never speak her name; but hespoke it all the day and all the night,--Beryl, nothing but Beryl,--and he looked for her in the fields and in the woods and among thebracken. It seemed as if he had unlocked the casket of his heart,closed for so many years, and as if all the memories of the past andall the secrets of his life were rushing out, glad to be free oncemore, and grateful for the open air of sympathy.

"Beryl was as swift as a deer!" he exclaimed. "You would have laughedto see her on the moor. Ah, it was hard to give up all the thoughts ofmeeting her again. They told me I should see her in heaven, but I didnot care about heaven. I wanted Beryl on earth, as I knew her, a merrylaughing sister. I think you are right: we don't forget; we becomeresigned in a dead, dull kind of way."

Suddenly he said, "I don't know why I have told you all this. And yetit has been such a pleasure to me. You are the only person to whom Icould have spoken about myself, for no one else but you would havecared."

"Don't you think," she said gently, "that you made a mistake inletting your experiences embitter you? Because you had been unlucky inone or two instances it did not follow that all the world was againstyou. Perhaps you unconsciously put yourself against all the world, andtherefore saw every one in an unfavourable light. It seems so easy todo that. Trouble comes to most people, doesn't it? And your philosophyshould have taught you to make the best of it. At least, that is mynotion of the value of philosophy."

She spoke hesitatingly, as though she gave utterance to these wordsagainst her will.

"I am sure you are right, child," he said, eagerly.

He put his hands to his eyes, but he could not keep back the tears.

"I have been such a lonely old man," he sobbed; "no one can tell whata lonely, loveless life mine has been. If I were not so old and sotired I should like to begin all over again."

He sobbed for many minutes, and she did not know what to say to him ofcomfort; but she took his hand within her own, and gently caressed it,as one might do to a little child in pain. He looked up and smiledthrough his tears.

"You have been very good to me," he said, "and I dare say you havethought me ungrateful. You mended my coat for me one morning, and nota day has passed but that I have looked at that darn and thought ofyou. I liked to remember that you had done it for me. But you havedone far more than this for me: you have put some sweetness into mylife. Whatever becomes of me hereafter, I shall never be able to thinkof my life on earth as anything but beautiful, because you thoughtkindly of me and acted kindly for me. The other night, when thisterrible pain came over me, I wished you were near me; I wished tohear your voice. There is very beautiful music in your voice."

"I would have come to you gladly," she said, smiling quietly at him."You must make a promise that when you feel ill again you will sendfor me. Then you will see what a splendid nurse I am, and how soon youwill become strong and well under my care, strong enough to paint manymore pictures, each one better than the last. Now will you promise?"

"Yes," he said, and he raised her hand reverently to his lips.

"You are not angry with me for doing that?" he asked, suddenly. "Ishould not like to vex you."

"I am not vexed," she answered, kindly.

"Then perhaps I may kiss it once more?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered; and again he raised her hand to his lips.

"Thank you," he said quietly; "that was kind of you. Do you see thatbroken sun-ray yonder? Is it not golden? I find it very pleasant tosit here; and I am quite happy, and almost free from pain. Lately Ihave been troubled with a dull thudding pain near my heart; but now Ifeel so strong that I believe I shall finish that Andrea del Sartoafter all."

"Of course you will," she answered, cheerily, "and I shall have toconfess that yours is better than mine! I am quite willing to yieldthe palm to you."

"I must alter the expression of the mouth," he replied. "That is thepart which has worried me. I don't think I told you that I have had acommission to copy Rembrandt's 'Old Jew.' I must set to work on thatnext week."

"But you have given me your palette and brushes!" she laughed.

"You must be generous enough to lend them to me," he said, smiling."By the way, I intend to give you my books, all of them. Some day Imust show them to you. I especially value my philosophical books; theyhave been my faithful companions through many years. I believe you donot read Greek. That is a pity, because you would surely enjoyAristotle. I think I must teach you Greek; it would be an agreeablelegacy to leave you when I pass away into the Great Silence."

"I should like to learn," she said, wondering to hear him speak sounreservedly. It seemed as if some vast barrier had been rolled aside,and as if she were getting to know him better, having been allowed toglance into his past life, to sympathise with his past mistakes, andwith the failure of his ambitions, and with the deadening of hisheart.

"You must read AEschylus," he continued, enthusiastically; "and, if Imistake not, the Agamemnon will be an epoch in your life. You willfind that all these studies will serve to ennoble your art, and youwill be able to put mind into your work, and not merely form andcolour. Do you know, I feel so well that I believe I shall not onlylive to finish Andrea del Sarto, but also to smoke another pipe?"

"You have been too rash to-day," she laughed, "giving away your pipeand pouch, your palette and brushes, in this reckless manner! I mustget you a new pipe to-morrow. I wonder you did not part with yourvenerable Lucretius."

"That reminds me," he said, fumbling in his pocket; "I think I havedropped my Lucretius. I fancy I left it somewhere in the Poets'Corner. It would grieve me to lose that book."

"Let me go and look for it," she said, and she advanced a few steps,and then came back to him.

"You have been saying many kind words to me," she said, as she put herhand on his arm, "and I have not told you that I value yourfriendship, and am grateful to you for letting me be more than a merestranger to you. I have been very lonely in my life, for I am not oneto make friends easily, and it has been a great privilege to me totalk with you. I want you to know this: for if I have been anything toyou, you have been a great deal to me. I have never met with muchsympathy from those of my own age: I have found them narrow andunyielding, and they found me dull and uninteresting. They had passedthrough few experiences and knew nothing about failure or success, andsome of them did not even understand the earnestness of endeavour, andlaughed at me when I spoke of a high ideal. So I withdrew into myself,and should probably have grown still more isolated than I was before,but that I met you, and, as time went on, we became friends. I shallalways remember your teaching, and I will try to keep to a high idealof life and art and endeavour, and I will not let despair creep intomy heart, and I will not lose my faith in humanity."

As she spoke a lingering ray of sunshine lit up her face and gentlycaressed her soft brown hair; slight though her form, sombre herclothes, and unlovely her features, she seemed a gracious presencebecause of her earnestness.

"Now," she said, cheerily, "you rest here until I come back with yourLucretius, and then I think I must be getting on my way home. But youmust fix a time for our first Greek lesson, for we must beginto-morrow."

When she had gone he walked in the cloisters, holding his hat in hishand and his stick under his arm. There was a quiet smile on his face,which was called forth by pleasant thoughts in his mind, and he didnot look quite so shrunken and shrivelled as usual. His eyes werefixed on the ground, but he raised them, and observed a white catcreeping toward him. It came and rubbed itself against his foot, and,purring with all its might, seemed determined to win some kind ofnotice from him. The old man stooped down to stroke it, and was justtouching its sleek coat when he suddenly withdrew his hand and groaneddeeply. He struggled to the recess, and sank back. The stick fell onthe stone with a clatter, and the battered hat rolled down beside it,and the white cat fled away in terror; but realising that there was nocause for alarm, it came back and crouched near the silent figure ofthe old man, watching him intently. Then it stretched out its paw andplayed with his hand, doing its utmost to coax him into a little fun;but he would not be coaxed, and the cat lost all patience with him,and left him to himself.

Meanwhile Helen Stanley was looking for the lost Lucretius in thePoets' Corner. She found it laying near Chaucer's tomb, and was justgoing to take it to her friend when she saw the workman to whom theyhad spoken in Trafalgar Square. He recognised her at once, and cametoward her.

"I've been having a quiet half-hour here," he said. "It does me asight of good to sit in the abbey."

"You should go into the cloisters," she said, kindly. "I have beensitting there with my friend. He will be interested to hear that youlove this beautiful abbey."

"I should like to see him again," said the workman. "He had a kind wayabout him, and that pipe he gave me is an uncommon good one. Still, Iam sorry I smashed the little clay pipe. I'd grown used to it. I'dsmoked it ever since my little girl died and left me alone in theworld. I used to bring my little girl here, and now I come alone. Butit isn't the same thing."

"No, it could not be the same thing," said Helen, gently. "But youfind some comfort here?"

"Some little comfort," he answered. "One can't expect much."

They went together into the cloisters, and as they came near therecess where the old man rested Helen said:

"Why, he has fallen asleep! He must have been very tired. And he hasdropped his hat and stick. Thank you. If you will put them down there,I will watch by his side until he wakes up. I don't suppose he willsleep for long."

The workman stooped down to pick up the hat and stick, and glanced atthe sleeper. Something in the sleeper's countenance arrested hisattention. He turned to the girl, and saw that she was watching him.

"What is it?" she asked anxiously. "What is the matter with you?"

He tried to speak, but his voice failed him, and all he could do wasto point with trembling hand to the old man.

Helen looked, and a loud cry broke from her lips. The old man wasdead.

THE OMNIBUS

BY

QUILLER-COUCH

All that follows was spoken in a small tavern, a stone's throw fromCheapside, the day before I left London. It was spoken in a dullvoice, across a greasy table-cloth, and amid an atmosphere so thickwith the reek of cooking that one longed to change it for the torridstreet again, to broil in an ampler furnace. Old Tom Pickford spokeit, who has been a clerk for fifty-two years in Tweedy's East Indiawarehouse, and in all that time has never been out of London, but whenhe takes a holiday spends it in hanging about Tweedy's, and observingthat unlovely place of business from the outside. The dust, if not theiron, of Tweedy's has entered into his soul; and Tweedy's young menknow him as "the Mastodon." He is a thin, bald septuagenarian, withsloping shoulders, and a habit of regarding the pavement when hewalks, so that he seems to steer his way by instinct rather thansight. In general he keeps silence while eating his chop; and on thisoccasion there was something unnatural in his utterance, a divorce ofmanner between the speaker and his words, such as one would expect ina sibyl disclaiming under stress of the god. I fancied it hadsomething to do with a black necktie that he wore instead of the bluebird's-eye cravat familiar to Tweedy's, and with his extraordinaryconduct in refusing to-day the chop that the waiter brought, andlimiting his lunch to cheese and lettuce.

Having pulled the lettuce to pieces, he pushed himself back a littlefrom the table, looked over his spectacles at me, then at the table-cloth, and began in a dreamy voice:

"Old Gabriel is dead. I heard the news at the office this morning, andwent out and bought a black tie. I am the oldest man in Tweedy's now--older by six years than Sam Collins, who comes next; so there is nomistake about it. Sam is looking for the place; I saw it in his eyewhen he told me, and I expect he'll get it. But I'm the oldest clerkin Tweedy's. Only God Almighty can alter that, and it's verysatisfactory to me. I don't care about the money. Sam Collins will bestuck up over it, like enough; but he'll never write a hand likeGabriel's, not if he lives to be a hundred; and he knows it, and knowsI'll be there to remind him of it. Gabriel's was a beautiful fist--sosmall, too, if he chose. Why, once, in his spare hours, he wrote outall the Psalms, with the headings, on one side of a folio sheet, andhad it framed and hung up in his parlour, out at Shepherd's Bush. Hedied in the night--oh yes, quite easily. He was down at the office allyesterday, and spoke to me as brisk as a bird. They found him dead inhis bed this morning.

"I seem cut up about it? Well, not exactly. Ah, you noticed that Irefused my chop to-day. Bless your soul, that's not on Gabriel'saccount. I am well on in years, and I suppose it would be natural ofme to pity old men, and expect pity. But I can't; no, /it's only theyoung that I pity/. If you /must/ know, I didn't take the chop to-daybecause I haven't the money in my pocket to pay for it. You see, therewas this black tie that I gave eighteenpence for; but something elsehappened this morning that I'll tell you about.

"I came down in a 'bus, as usual. You remember what muggy weather itwas up to ten o'clock--though you wouldn't think it, to feel the heatnow. Well, the 'bus was packed, inside and out. At least, there wasjust room for one more inside when we pulled up by Charing Cross, andthere he got in--a boy with a stick and a bundle in a bluehandkerchief.

"He wasn't more than thirteen; bound for the docks, you could tell ata glance; and by the way he looked about you could tell as easily thatin stepping outside Charing Cross station he'd set foot on Londonstones for the first time. God knows how it struck him--the slush anddrizzle, the ugly shop-fronts, the horses slipping in the brown mud,the crowd on the pavement pushing him this side and that. The poorlittle chap was standing in the middle of it with dazed eyes, like ahare's, when the 'bus pulled up. His eyelids were pink and swollen;but he wasn't crying, though he wanted to. Instead, he gave a gulp ashe came on board with stick and bundle, and tried to look brave as alion.

"I'd have given worlds to speak to him, but I couldn't. On my word,sir, I should have cried. It wasn't so much the little chap's look.But to the knot of his bundle there was tied a bunch of cottageflowers,--sweet-williams, boy's-love, and a rose or two,--and thesight and smell of them in that stuffy omnibus were like tears onthirsty eyelids. It's the young that I pity, sir. For Gabriel, in hisbed up at Shepherd's Bush, there's no more to be said, as far as I cansee; and as for me, I'm the oldest clerk in Tweedy's, which is verysatisfactory. It's the young faces, set toward the road along which wehave travelled, that trouble me. Sometimes, sir, I lie awake in mylodgings and listen, and the whole of this London seems filled withthe sound of children's feet running, and I can sob aloud. You may saythat it is only selfishness, and what I really pity is my own boyhood.I dare say you're right. It's certain that, as I kept glancing at theboy and his sea kit and his bunch of flowers, my mind went back to theJanuary morning, sixty-five years back, when the coach took me off forthe first time from the village where I was born to a London charity-school. I was worse off than the boy in the omnibus, for I had justlost father and mother. Yet it was the sticks and stones and flower-beds that I mostly thought of. I went round and said good-bye to thelilacs, and told them to be in flower by the time I came back. I saidto the rose-bush, 'You must be as high as my window next May; you knowyou only missed it by three inches last summer.' Then I went to thecow-house, and kissed the cows, one by one. They were to be sold byauction the very next week, but I guessed nothing of it, and orderedthem not to forget me. And last I looked at the swallows' nests underthe thatch,--the last year's nests,--and told myself that they wouldbe filled again when I returned. I remembered this, and how Istretched out my hands to the place from the coach-top; and how atReading, where we stopped, I spent the two shillings that I possessedin a cocoanut and a bright clasp-knife; and how, when I opened it, thenut was sour; and how I cried myself to sleep, and woke in London.

"The young men in Tweedy's, though they respect my long standingthere, make fun of me at times because I never take a holiday in thecountry. Why, sir, /I dare not/. I should wander back to my oldvillage, and-- Well, I know how it would be then. I should find itsmaller and meaner; I should search about for the flowers and nests,and listen for the music that I knew sixty-five years ago, andremember; and they would not be discoverable. Also every face wouldstare at me, for all the faces I know are dead. Then I should think Ihad missed my way and come to the wrong place; or (worse) that no suchspot ever existed, and I have been cheating myself all these years;that, in fact, I was mad all the while, and have no stable reason forexisting--I, the oldest clerk in Tweedy's! To be sure, there would bemy parents' headstones in the churchyard. But what are they, if thechurchyard itself is changed?

"As it is, with three hundred pounds per annum, and enough laid by tokeep him, if I fail, an old bachelor has no reason to grumble. But thesight of that little chap's nosegay, and the thought of the mother whotied it there, made my heart swell as I fancy the earth must swellwhen rain is coming. His eyes filled once, and he brushed them underthe pretence of pulling his cap forward, and stole a glance round tosee if any one had noticed him. The other passengers were busy withtheir own thoughts, and I pretended to stare out of the windowopposite; but there was the drop, sure enough, on his hand as he laidit on his lap again.

"He was bound for the docks, and thence for the open sea, and I, thatwas bound for Tweedy's only, had to get out at the top of Cheapside. Iknow the 'bus conductor,--a very honest man,--and, in getting out, Islipped half a crown into his hand to give to the boy, with myblessing, at his journey's end. When I picture his face, sir, I wish Ihad made it five shillings, and gone without a new tie and dinneraltogether."

THE HIRED BABY

BY

MARIE CORELLI

A dark, desolate December night, a night that clung to the metropolislike a wet black shroud, a night in which the heavy, low-hangingvapours melted every now and then into a slow, reluctant rain, cold asicicle-drops in a rock cavern. People passed and repassed in thestreets like ghosts in a bad dream; the twinkling gas-light showedthem at one moment rising out of the fog, and then disappearing fromview as though suddenly engulfed in a vaporous ebon sea. With muffled,angry shrieks, the metropolitan trains deposited their shoals ofshivering, coughing travelers at the several stations, where sleepyofficials, rendered vicious by the weather, snatched the tickets fromtheir hands with offensive haste and roughness. Omnibus conductorsgrew ill-tempered and abusive without any seemingly adequate reason;shopkeepers became flippant, disobliging, and careless of custom;cabmen shouted derisive or denunciatory language after their rapidlyretreating fares; in short, everybody was in a discontented, almostspiteful humour, with the exception of those few aggressively cheerfulpersons who are in the habit of always making the best of everything,even bad weather. Down the long wide vista of the Cromwell Road,Kensington, the fog had it all its own way; it swept on steadily, likethick smoke from a huge fire, choking the throats and blinding theeyes of foot-passengers, stealing through the crannies of the houses,and chilling the blood of even those luxurious individuals who, seatedin elegant drawing-rooms before blazing fires, easily forgot thatthere were such bitter things as cold and poverty in that outsideworld against which they had barred their windows. At one house inparticular--a house with gaudy glass doors and somewhat spoiled yellowsilk curtains at the windows, a house that plainly said to itself,"Done up for show!" to all who cared to examine its exterior--therestood a closed brougham, drawn by a prancing pair of fat horses. Acoachman of distinguished appearance sat on the box; a footman ofirreproachable figure stood waiting on the pavement, his yellow-glovedhand resting elegantly on the polished silver knob of the carriagedoor. Both these gentlemen were resolute and inflexible of face; theylooked as if they had determined on some great deed that should movethe world to wild applause; but, truth to tell, they had only justfinished a highly satisfactory "meat-tea," and before this gravesilence had fallen upon them, they had been discussing theadvisability of broiled steak and onions for supper. The coachman hadinclined to plain mutton-chops as being easier of digestion; thefootman had earnestly asseverated his belief in the superiorsucculence and sweetness of the steak and onions, and in the end hehad gained his point. This weighty question being settled, they hadgradually grown reflective on the past, present, and future joys ofeating at some one else's expense, and in this bland and pleasingstate of meditation they were still absorbed. The horses wereimpatient, and pawed the muddy ground with many a toss of their longmanes and tails, the steam from their glossy coats mingling with theever-thickening density of the fog. On the white stone steps of theresidence before which they waited was an almost invisible bundle,apparently shapeless and immovable. Neither of the two gorgeouspersonages in livery observed it; it was too far back in a dim corner,too unobtrusive, for the casual regard of their lofty eyes. Suddenlythe glass doors before mentioned were thrown apart with a clatteringnoise, a warmth and radiance from the entrance-hall thus displayedstreamed into the foggy street, and at the same instant the footman,still with grave and imperturbable countenance, opened the brougham.An elderly lady, richly dressed, with diamonds sparkling in her grayhair, came rustling down the steps, bringing with her faint odours ofpatchouly and violet-powder. She was followed by a girl of doll-likeprettiness, with a snub nose and petulant little mouth, who held upher satin-and-lace skirts with a sort of fastidious disdain, as thoughshe scorned to set foot on earth that was not carpeted with the bestvelvet pile. As they approached their carriage the inert dark bundle,crouched in the corner, started into life--a woman, with wild hair andwilder eyes, whose pale lips quivered with suppressed weeping as herpiteous voice broke into sudden clamour:

"Oh, lady!" she cried, "for the love of God, a trifle! Oh, lady,lady!"

But the "lady," with a contemptuous sniff and a shake of her scentedgarments, passed her before she could continue her appeal, and sheturned with a sort of faint hope to the softer face of the girl.

"Oh, my dear, do have pity! Just the smallest little thing, and Godwill bless you! You are rich and happy--and I am starving! Only apenny! For the baby--the poor little baby!" And she made as though shewould open her tattered shawl and reveal some treasure hidden therein,but shrunk back, repelled by the cold, merciless gaze that fell uponher from those eyes, in which youth dwelt without tenderness.

"You have no business on our door step," said the girl, harshly. "Goaway directly, or I shall tell my servant to call a policeman."

Then, as she entered the brougham after her mother, she addressed therespectable footman angrily, giving him the benefit of a strong nasalintonation.

"Howard, why do you let such dirty beggars come near the carriage?What are you paid for, I should like to know? It is perfectlydisgraceful to the house!"

"Very sorry, miss!" said the footman, gravely. "I didn't see the--theperson before." Then shutting the brougham door, he turned with adignified air to the unfortunate creature, who still lingered near,and, with a sweeping gesture of his gold-embroidered coat-sleeve, saidmajestically:

"Do you 'ear? Be hoff!"

Then, having thus performed his duty, he mounted the box beside hisfriend the coachman, and the equipage rattled quickly away, itsgleaming lights soon lost in the smoke-laden vapours that droopeddownward like funeral hangings from the invisible sky to the scarcelyvisible ground. Left to herself, the woman who had vainly soughtcharity from those in whom no charity existed, looked up despairingly,as one distraught, and seemed as though she would have given vent tosome fierce exclamation, when a feeble wail came pitifully forth fromthe sheltering folds of her shawl. She restrained herself instantly,and walked on at a rapid pace, scarcely heeding whither she went, tillshe reached the Catholic church known as the "Oratory." Its unfinishedfacade loomed darkly out of the fog; there was nothing picturesque orinviting about it, yet there were people passing softly in and out,and through the swinging to and fro of the red baize-covered doorsthere came a comforting warm glimmer of light. The woman paused,hesitated, and then, having apparently made up her mind, ascended thebroad steps, looked in, and finally entered. The place was strange toher; she knew nothing of its religious meaning, and its cold,uncompleted appearance oppressed her. There were only some half-dozenpersons scattered about, like black specks, in its vast white